William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

smiling.
    Rathbone glanced at Melville.
    Melville bit his lip and moved his head an inch in acknowledgment. He looked wretched. Perhaps it was the look of innocence, but it had all the air of guilt. The jury could not have missed it.
    “Please continue,” Sacheverall prompted.
    “We had tea,” Delphine resumed. “Hot crumpets with melted butter. They are not easy to eat delicately. We laughed at ourselves over that as well. And toasted tea cakes. They were delicious.” She made a little gesture of deprecation. “We ate them all. We were so happy we did not even notice.Then Killian and Zillah got up and went for a walk in the garden. The leaves were turning color and the very first few had fallen. The chrysanthemums were in bloom.” She glanced at the judge, then back to Sacheverall. “Such a wonderful perfume they have, earthy and warm. They always make me think of everything that is lovely … rich but never vulgar. If only we could always have such perfect taste.” She sighed. “Anyway, Killian and Zillah remained outside for some time, but I was in every proper sense still a chaperone. Zillah told me afterwards they were discussing their ideas for a future home, all the things they would most like to have, and how it would be … colors, styles, furniture … everything two people in love would plan for their future.”
    Rathbone looked at Melville again. Could any man really be such a complete fool as to have spoken to a woman of such things and not know perfectly well she would take it as a prelude to a proposal of marriage?
    “Is that true?” he demanded under his breath.
    Melville turned to him. His face was deep pink with the rush of blood to his cheeks, his eyes were hot, but he did not avoid looking straight back.
    “Yes … and no …”
    “That won’t do!” Rathbone said between his teeth. “If you are not honest with me I cannot help you, and believe me, you are going to need every ounce of help I can think of—and more!”
    “That may be how she saw it,” Melville answered, looking down now, not at Rathbone. His voice was low and tense. “We did talk about houses and furnishings. But it wasn’t for us! I’m an architect … houses are not only my profession, they are my love. I’ll talk about design to anyone! I was making suggestions to her about the things she wanted in a home and how they could be achieved. I told her of new ways of creating more warmth, more light and color, of bringing to life the dreams she had. But it was for her—not for both of us!” He turned to face Rathbone again. “I would have spoken the same way to anyone. Yes, of course we laughedtogether—we were friends….” His eyes were full of distress. Rathbone could have sworn he held that friendship dear and the loss of it hurt him.
    Delphine Lambert was still talking, describing other occasions when Melville and Zillah Lambert had been together, their easy companionship, their quick understanding of each other’s thoughts, their shared laughter at a score of little things.
    Rathbone looked across at the jurors’ faces. Their sympathy was unmistakable. To change their minds it would take a revelation about Zillah Lambert so powerful and so shocking it would shatter any emotion they felt now so that they would be left angry and betrayed. And Melville had sworn there was no such secret. Was it conceivable he knew something of her which made it impossible to marry her, yet he still cared for her too deeply to expose it—even to save himself?
    It would have to be something her parents did not know, or they would never have risked his revealing it. They could not rely on Melville’s self-sacrifice.
    And Zillah herself would not dare to tell them, even to save Melville, and thus this whole tragic farce.
    Rathbone would have to press Melville harder, until he at last spoke of whatever it was he was still hiding. And Rathbone had felt certain from the first that there was something.
    He turned his attention back to the court.
    Delphine was describing some grand social event, a ball or a dinner party. Her face was alight with remembered excitement.
    “All the girls were simply lovely,” she said, her voice soft, her slender hands on the rail in front of her, lightly touching it, not gripping. She might have held a dancing partner so. “The gowns were exquisite.” She smiled as she spoke. “Like so many flowers blown in the wind as they swirled around the floor. The chandeliers blazed and